


Fire

by tweed_princess



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Cunnilingus, F/M, Half-Sibling Incest, Mutual Masturbation, Sex, Smut, or rather cousin-incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-01
Updated: 2016-07-07
Packaged: 2018-07-19 08:31:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7353583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tweed_princess/pseuds/tweed_princess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first night she came to his bed, he was still battle-weary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I had been gleefully watching this season, finding the Jon and Sansa scenes to be touching and sweet. Not until the forehead kiss did I realize that I was shipping it, hard. First smut fic in a thousand years, please be gentle.

The first night she comes to his bed, he is still battle-weary. The fire in his room has gone down almost to embers, but he can still see her bright red hair shining in the moonlight at the foot of the bed as his eyes adjust. He had expected to sleep like the dead of the crypts of Winterfell lately, but he has found the opposite to be true; every small noise in the castle and on the grounds seems to wake him.

 “Sansa,” he gasps, his heart still thumping in his chest. “I thought you might have been an intruder.”

“I’m sorry. I could not sleep,” she says quietly, not moving. Her can see her breath fog in the stream of moonlight pouring in from the windows. She turns away from him. “Your fire needs more wood. You’ll freeze to death.” She’s right; he’s very cold. His breath turns to mist in front of him, mingling in the air with hers. She picks up split logs from the hearth and within moments the fire seems to be growing. “That’s much better.”

He turns his face into a grimace. He is not quite sure what she wants from him, coming to his chambers at this hour. He wonders, as he often does when he’s having the occasional crisis of faith, what Ned Stark would do. He almost laughs, knowing what 12-year old Jon Snow would think about a lady appearing at the end of his bed in the night, especially one as pretty as Sansa.

And she certainly _is_ pretty. Her hair is quite like Ygritte’s, shining in the light of the fire, but softer and pulled into a loose braid. In the glow, he sees that she has a long, slender nose- not large or crooked by any means, but rather sloping gracefully towards her small mouth, with full, slightly parted lips. He cannot see her the color of her eyes, but he knows what color they are: Tully blue. He’s never been warranted a visit like this by a pretty highborn girl, not being a baseborn bastard or a Brother of the Night’s Watch.

She walks towards his bed and sits on the edge of it, her weight dipping the bed slightly. He sees that she is just wearing her shift. He instinctively inches away from her, towards the wall, as if just an accidental touch of her porcelain skin would cause Ned and Robb Stark’s ghosts to come back and rip his soul out through his arse. “I know you might find me strange, but… can I sleep here?”

He swallows two or three lumps that have suddenly appeared in his throat. _She’s your half-sister, and she’s terrified… this is innocent. Completely innocent. Not everything you protect her from has to be evil men and terrifying monsters._ “Y-yeah,” he says, inching away further still.

She swings her legs up onto the bed and pulls his furs up around her. She turns her face towards him. Her lips are parted and her chest goes up and down gently. “You’re so far away,” she muses, her lips tugging at the corners. She rarely smiles, and when she does it it just a small smile. He feels her small, slender hand wrap gently around his. It is warm. Within minutes, he hears her breathing even out and she is sleeping, snoring softly. He follows her soon after.

\---

 He awakes again with a start. He had been dreaming. He cannot remember the last time he slept through the night. Probably before he died, perhaps before the Battle of Hardhome. Sansa is snoring gently beside him still, and it is still pitch dark, save the moon. It has likely only been a few hours.

Normally it is his nightmares that have awoken him. He’s not quite sure what to call this dream. All he knows is that it was of red hair, milky skin and soft, pink lips.

 And now his cock is hard, painfully so, and he is trapped between the wall and Sansa. There is no possible way he is going to be able to fall asleep. So he waits, several minutes (that feel more like hours). Nothing changes. He is still so hard he’s surprised he has not cut a hole through the furs.

He knows how he would remedy the situation if he were alone. He would stroke his cock until he peaked, wipe himself off with a discarded tunic, and then fall asleep. But Sansa is here, and stroking himself until he came would be more than just sinful... but hasn’t he sinned already, dreaming of his pretty half-sister? _As long as I am quiet… all I’ll have to live with is myself._

He grasps his cock in his right hand and stifles a gasp. The ache persists. He knows, from experience, that it will only get worse before it gets better. He glances over at Sansa, who has her back turned to him, only to make sure she is still sleeping, and holds back a groan.

The furs are heavy enough to be slowing him down, so he pushes them to his thighs. Still grasping his cock, he speeds up the tempo. If he does this correctly, he’ll have come in a few minutes and…

Sansa turns over to her back, her arm above her head on the pillow. The furs slip slightly, and he can see her taut nipples through her shift. _This is awful_. He moans, louder than he’d like to, and her eyes flutter open.

“Jon?” It takes her a moment to realize what he is doing, and then her eyes widen. “ _Oh_.”

“S-Sansa,“ he chokes out, his breathing uneven. He stops his movements but does not remove his hand from his cock, for some reason. “I’m sorry, I-”

“Don’t be,” she says, her voice strange. “Don’t… don’t stop.” Her eyes shift from his face to his cock to his face again. He sees movement underneath the blankets and he doesn’t process what it all means.

She pushes the furs down so they are even on both sides, and he can see that she has her fingers under her shift, and in her cunt. His mind goes blank. He groans, and his eyes trail up her body to search hers. They are half-lidded, and the tip of her tongue comes out to moisten her pink lips. “This is wrong,” he says hoarsely, but his hands are stroking his cock again.

“I know,” she replies, but she does not stop, her neck arching up off the pillow. They stay two feet apart from each other, but it still feels so intimate, the way she is looking at him. He knows she has found that hard little nub in her folds. He wonders if she’s ever found it before. She gasps, her eyes going from his cock to his face. He slows down his tempo. He wants her to catch up. He doesn't want to finish before her, because then she might stop. He knows they both need this. 

 _I am a sick bastard,_ he thinks to himself as he watches her thighs spread further apart. One hand has snaked up to her breasts, and she is stroking them, cupping them, squeezing them, pinching her nipples through the fabric. Her sighs and gasps are becoming more and more frequent, as he picks up the pace again. Their eyes lock, and she softly sighs “ _Jon._ ”

He wants to cover her body with his at that moment, part her legs and fuck her, slow or fast or whatever way she wants it. He wants to feel her nails at his back, her thighs around his hips. But he cannot. So he strokes his cock.

She says his name again. “Gods, _Sansa_ ,” he responds. He is nearing his peak, he knows it, and judging from her arched back and her labored breathing, she is too.

As her moans become higher-pitched and her hips lift off the bed, he explodes in his hand. For a few moments, they lay still, breathing heavily. He can hear birds chirping, and the sunlight has started to stream in. “I’m sorry-“ he begins, but she cuts him off.

“Don’t be.” She sits up then, her back to him, fixing her shift around her and getting out of his bed. She stops to put another log on the fire, and then leaves the room, shutting the door behind her. He collapses back onto his pillow, surrounded by the smell of Sansa, and stares at the ceiling until he can no longer bear to be alone in his thoughts.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It was this sort of aloofness that drove him mad enough to pace about this hall just moments before, nostrils flared and fists clenched. She's tricking him into this, wicked girl, and he's well aware of it. If only she could see him now, she’d understand just the amount of power she wielded over him. He has a sneaking suspicion that she could never imagine the monster she has made of him."
> 
> Fuck honor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had convinced myself that this was going to be a one-shot, to nip the Jonsa bug in the bud. Bug bud not nipped (say that five times fast). I pretty much started writing this as soon as the last one was published. Might as well post it.
> 
> This takes place probably a fortnight after the first chapter. It's safe to assume escalation and boldness has happened between then and now. Or, you can imagine that Jon has just lost his fucking mind.
> 
> As always, I live off of your validation so _giveeeee it to meeeeeeeeee_.

If Jon was once an honorable man, he’s not so sure he is anymore.

Right now, he is waiting for her, in a tapestry-covered window alcove by her bedchamber. He is not entirely certain what he plans to do when she comes upon him, but he is certain that he will be able to justify it. He figures that as long as he doesn’t _really_ touch her (the definition of that is up for interpretation depending on how he feels), or fuck her, he’ll still be able to sleep tonight.

There is a small voice in the back of his head that tells him that he won’t sleep, whether he leaves this alcove before she arrives or not. And he knows that the chance that she shows up in his bed chambers tonight is fairly high if she doesn’t get what she wants. He figures that he has more control in this alcove than he would ever have in his bed, where he could lock the door and stay inside her for days.

 _Something_ was bound to happen, he was sure of it. Her behavior at supper tonight seemed to indicate so. She was very purposefully avoiding his gaze, even though she was seated right next to him. Even worse, she had barely said a word to him the entire night, despite the fact that she kept knocking her knee against his. She didn’t even finish her stew of venison, onions, and potatoes before she left abruptly, informing him that she had a sewing circle to attend.

It was this sort of aloofness that drove him mad enough to pace about this hall just moments before, nostrils flared and fists clenched. She's tricking him into this, wicked girl, and he's well aware of it. If only she could see him now, she’d understand just the amount of power she wielded over him. He has a sneaking suspicion that she could never imagine the monster she has made of him.

He hears footsteps echoing and he readies himself. _Please be alone, please be alone..._ There is also a part of him that hopes that she is not alone, because he is not sure if this will end well.

“I would like to prepare myself for bed tonight alone, Joy,” says Sansa’s voice, just loud enough for him to hear. He cannot help but grin in anticipation, feeling almost like a boy again.

“Of course, my Lady,” Joy responds. Footsteps echo in the opposite direction down the hallway. From the sounds of things, Sansa is just standing there. It almost feels like a child’s game, hide-and-seek, as if she knows that he is somewhere near, waiting for her.

Her footsteps are now echoing slow, like a bridal march, and blood is roaring in his ears. His heart feels as though it may pound out of his chest. He’s half-hard just thinking of what he could do. As she comes closer, he readies himself to pounce, perhaps not the greatest idea with Brienne undoubtedly not too far away and always listening for her Lady Sansa’s call.

He grabs her then, pulling her into the alcove, and she gasps. He stays behind her. “Sansa,” he hisses in her ear. “It’s me.” One hand comes to rest on her belly, while the other snakes up to the white column of her white throat. He does not wrap his hand around her, or squeeze, but rather splays his fingers across, pulling her head closer to him so that he might kiss her neck. She chuckles darkly and turns her head to take the tip of his thumb into her mouth. _Fuck._

He snakes the hand resting on her belly up to her breasts, kneading them gently as he peppers kisses along her shoulder and neck. He slips one hand into the bodice of her dress, reveling in the smooth, bare flesh underneath as he gently pinches her nipple with his callused hands. She moans.

He is definitely hard now, his cock straining his breeches. Jon presses his hips into her bottom and growls. Her lips curve into a small smile around his thumb as she wiggles her arse against him, and he bucks against her and growls again. The close proximity of the door to her bedchamber comes to mind. How easy it would be to lie her down in her bed and fuck her silly. He knows that she would not object.

 _No,_ he reminds himself for the millionth time. That’s a line he knows he cannot cross. She may not have her maidenhead anymore, but he still sees her as a woman with virtue. And she still is Ned Stark’s daughter. He will not give her a bastard.

Instead, he steps from behind her swiftly, pushing her against the stone wall and leaning in. He’s just touched her tits, so he might as well kiss her mouth, right? Perhaps he’ll stroke her over her smallclothes until she’s spent and then he’ll go to his chambers and wank himself off at the memory of it.

She kisses him back in earnest, parting her lips to his tongue. Her slender fingers pull the hair that he has tied up, and they lace in his curls when it is loose. He begins bunching up the skirt of her dress in his hands, and when she notices his intent, she helps him. With his mouth still on hers, and her skirt up around her waist, he dips his fingers down below until he feels…. _Hair?_

“Fuck,” he says, either in his head or out loud against her lips. He takes a step back and gulps. She isn’t wearing any smallclothes, he realizes. He almost loses it, then, at the sight of Sansa standing in the alcove, skirts hiked up around her waist, staring at him. She isn’t smiling. The hair of her cunt almost matches the hair on her head, perhaps just a shade darker, and it is damp.

This wasn’t part of the plan.

_Fuck honor._

He covers her body with his own, fingers teasing the damp curls at the apex of her thighs. “And where did you happen to lose your smallclothes, Lady Sansa?” he rasps, lips close to her ear.

He feels her shudder. He can hear the smile in her voice when she says, “My King, I must have forgotten them this morning in my bedchamber.”

Dumbfounded. He feels as though he is on fire. Perhaps they are both on fire, and they will melt the snow and burn the castle down together. He teases his fingers through her folds, stroking her, reveling in her wetness. "How absent-minded of you," he finally manages, as his fingers stumble upon what he’s looking for and rubs her nub in a circular motion, and she is moaning and gasping and his fingers are positively drenched. He wonders what she tastes like, and before he can really stop himself, he draws two fingers up to his own lips and sucks on them. Her eyes burn into him, and her cheeks are flushed.

It’d been so long that he’d forgotten what a woman’s cunt tasted like. Sansa tasted divine, salty and slightly sweet and some other taste that he didn’t know how to describe. This used to be his favorite part of making love to Ygritte, and before he knows it, he’s dropping to his knees. He looks up at her face. “May I?” he asks her. She bites her lip and nods. There is something so sweet and innocent about her sudden change in demeanor that he feels a rush of affection for her. He knows she has never experienced this, and his heart sings at being the first to show it to her.

He grabs one slender calf and hooks it over his shoulder. A wicked part of him wants to please her so much that she can never touch herself again without thinking of this night behind the tapestry. He wants to be the sort of man that shows her what this can really be like. He wants her to remember him between her thighs when she is in her marriage bed, a wife, making heirs for some Northern lord that is not him, that can never be him.

He kisses the inside of her thighs lightly. Her scent is heady surrounding him, causing his head to spin; it is the same smell that she leaves clinging to his bedsheets. She is trembling slightly, so he uses one hand to hold her steady, the other one interlocking with hers. He feels compelled to ask her again. “Are you sure? Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” she hisses and he presses his face into her cunt, tongue stroking her from back to front. He circles around her clit, and then sucks it gently between his lips. He frees his hands and grabs her arse, fingers digging into the soft flesh, pulling her so close he’s practically suffocating. Her legs are trembling now, the one calf slung over his shoulder drawing him further in.

Seven hells, what a lovely way to go. If he dies, face buried in Sansa Stark’s pretty pink cunt, they should write songs about him, like they do about all men who charge bravely into glory.

“Jon,” she groans, and he grins into her folds. Her thighs are now quaking around his head, and she has one hand over her mouth to hold back her moans and squeals, the other one grabbing at his hair.

She’s been tensing her body, and he figures that she is about to come, so he replaces his tongue with fingers momentarily so he can rasp, “Look at me, sweet girl.” She opens her eyes, locking them with his as he puts his mouth back in its rightful place. He quickens his tongue, and suddenly she is shuddering and falling apart, her cries muffled against her palm, and it is so lovely from this view.

Rising to his feet, he holds her close to his chest and kisses her sweetly as she catches her breath. A delicate hand travels down his chest, stroking his erection through the leather but he puts his hands over hers, stilling it. This is it, Ned Stark’s son decides. The limit. This has to end.

Behind the tapestry, it is her turn to be dumbfounded. He stalks away from her to his bedchambers, nostrils flared and fists clenched.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon Snow is definitely the kind of guy who loves eating pussy, right? He's the kind of guy that would spend all night there if you'd let him, and he'd occasionally check in with you to see if you're okay. I'll write something from Sansa's POV eventually, it is just too much fun to imagine Jon's inner turmoil. 
> 
> Also, consider every Jon Snow I write to have that delicious man-bun unless otherwise stated. I don't even LIKE man-buns normally, but gah.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Months have passed. Bran has news. Jon and Sansa have a lot to process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! First off, I want to thank you all for the kudos and the reviews. What a wonderful community I've stumbled upon. :)  
> Luckily for my statistics grade, this will be the last chapter of this fic. Unluckily for my statistics grade, I already have ideas brewing in my head for a Modern AU fic, set in beautiful snowy ~Toronto, Canada~. I'm normally not keen on AUs, but I've seen a few really great ones, specifically about Jon and Sansa. I can't quite get this one out of my head. Stay tuned for that one!  
> A little bit of a disclaimer: I'm going to rush through the whole bit where the remaining Starks arrive home and Bran informs Jon that R+L=J. I'm sorry about that; it's essential to my ending (at least in my head), but if I had dragged it on much longer, it would have distracted from the purpose of this fic. Which is porn. And some stuff about recovery and love and loss and forbidden passion, whatever.

Months pass, and things slowly begin to rebuild at Winterfell. A moon’s turn or so after the battle, Arya arrives home. Sansa hugs her tightly and Jon ruffles her hair as she asks if Sansa _really_ fed Ramsey Bolton to his hounds. Word had travelled fast to the Twins, where Arya had spent several weeks slowly picking off members of House Frey. Sansa smiles at Arya’s gleeful revenge against those that killed Robb and Catelyn, but Jon worries. He wonders how she’d managed to sneak around the Twins for such a long period of time, if anyone knows that she is the one responsible. What he does know, however, is that a darkness now exists inside her, just like himself and Sansa.

Bran turns up a fortnight after that, in the back of a cart from Castle Black. He is huddled next to a girl his age, named Meera, of House Reed. His eyes are milky white, and Meera tells Jon that he has been having visions since they left Castle Black. He wakes up after several hours, and tells Jon that they need to talk.

Bran tells him first in private, but Jon makes the decision to tell his family. Jon sends for Arya and Sansa, and Meera arrives with them, anxious to see Bran.

Bran tells them about his greensight, about the Children of the Forest and the Three-Eyed Raven and the Night’s King. Bran tells them all the truth of Jon’s parentage, that he is the son of Lyanna Stark and Rhaegar Targaryen. Months ago, Jon would have been skeptical of the story and of Bran’s powers. Now, as a man who has risen from the dead at the hands of the Red Woman, he is willing to accept almost anything as truth. Bran tells them that Meera’s father, Howland Reed will know the truth, and suggests that they send a raven, and to include news of his daughter. They all agree to keep this amongst themselves for now.

Sansa’s eyes bore into him almost the entire time, only stopping occasionally to look at Bran when he speaks. No one else seems to notice.

Although she remains by his side at dinner and at his table during council meetings, Jon hasn’t felt this distant from Sansa in a very long time. Any conversation between them is strictly related to the Kingdom, and it is always in the presence of others. There is a certain tension between the two of them, now, and everyone has seemed to notice, although no one has said much. Tormund had indicated that he believed Sansa to be jealous of Jon’s title as King in the North, but Jon could only scoff at that.

“She’s been through too much,” Jon told him one night by the fire. “Things are quiet now. She has a lot to think over.”

Tormund seemed to accept this, and that was the end of that. Jon knows that there was some truth to what he had said. He cannot deny his role in that, however.

He had acted as a predator. How different was he from Joffrey, from Littlefinger, from Ramsey? Was he just another man in a long line of men who saw Sansa’s beauty and took what he could? This thought keeps him up at night, far later than he’d like, and makes his chest ache when he is near her.

It isn’t until Lord Glover mentions finding a match for Sansa (heavily implying that he was offering his son Gawen up as a potential suitor) that Sansa visits his solar, alone.

“Littlefinger has given me a marriage offer again,” she says from the other end of the table. He raises his eyebrows at her. “I’m inclined to accept.”

“What? _No_ ,” he responds. His heart is in the pit of his stomach and he stands, both palms on the table in front of him. He’d seen Littlefinger prowling about the castle lately, his eyes following Sansa everywhere she went. “Not Littlefinger. I refuse to let that happen.”

“It would be beneficial to both of our Houses. I can ensure that Winterfell retains the support of the Vale, and I can keep an eye on him. He receives heirs from the daughter of Lord Eddard Stark.” She pauses, also standing, so she may face the window. “I wasn’t aware I needed your permission, _your Grace_.”

Jon sighs, exasperated. “I wasn’t- it’s not like that.” He hears her scoff. “Littlefinger is not to be trusted, you have no idea what he’s truly capable of-“

“I know more than anyone what he’s capable of!” she responds, spinning around. There are tears of anger in her eyes. “That’s the point! I know what to expect! In a few months, once everyone realizes that I am not pregnant with the next Ramsey Bolton, they will start coming. Asking your permission to wed me. You will gift me to the highest bidder. I know how this goes, Jon.”

“I would never!” He can feel anger rising in his gut. How could she say such things? “I am not selling you to anyone. You are home, at Winterfell, and you’re safe!”

She takes three steps closer to him, fists clenched. “So, am I supposed to stay within these castle walls forever, unmarried and barren? Perhaps I can be a Septa!”

“Oh, don’t be so ridiculous!” he says, rolling his eyes. He is not sure what is worse; the yelling, or the silence. He hates this argument, every second of it, but he cannot bear to think of Sansa riding off to the Vale, wedding Petyr and bearing him children.

“ _Am_ I being ridiculous?” Two more steps forward. Sansa’s face is red. Jon straightens himself. “Perhaps I want to marry Petyr Baelish,” she says tersely.

“I know you don’t.”

“Since when do you care about what I want, anyway?” Her arms fold over her chest. His frown deepens. “It has never been about what I want. Not with you, or anyone.”

They are silent for a moment, before what Sansa is referring to hits him. “Sansa, I was never what you wanted. You were sad, lonely, and scared. I took advantage of that.”

A tear rolls down her cheek. “You know _nothing_.” He gapes at her for a moment, and then sighs. He finds his hands resting on her arms, near her shoulders, even though he swore to himself to never touch her again.

“It wasn’t right what I did,” he says hoarsely. She looks up at him, and her eyes are searching his.

“What _we_ did,” she breathes. “And it felt more than right. It was all I’d ever wanted.” Unconsciously, he places a hand on her cheek and she turns her head slightly to press a kiss upon his palm. “You’re not my brother, Jon.”

Jon swallows thickly and nods. He’s waited long enough. Sansa's the only thing that makes sense anymore. He bends his head, intending to kiss her softly, but Sansa chases his lips. She kisses him with fervor, hot tears rolling down her cheeks, and when he brushes her lips with his tongue, she opens up to him willingly. She throws her arms around his neck as his fingers lace in her hair.

Sansa pulls him backwards, further and further until her legs hit the table. He lifts her to place her upon it, and she wraps her legs around his hips. She pulls him closer still, and he breaks from her mouth to kiss along her jawline. He is hard against her, but she doesn’t seem to pay any mind.

His lips and tongue move to her slender neck, and she moans as he palms her breast. He could take her right now, removing her smallclothes and fucking her here on this table. The idea thrills him, and makes his cock throb, but it doesn’t feel right. It’s not what she deserves, not after everything she’s been through. He wants to give her tenderness; he doesn’t want her to think that he is just a man in need of spilling seed. It is more than that, and it always has been. He knows this now.  

He thinks he loves her.

“Jon,” she says, and he breaks his kisses on her bosom to rest his forehead against hers. The two of them are panting now. “Please stay with me this time.”

He doesn’t say anything, just nods and wraps his arms around her, lifting her from the table. Her thighs tighten around him, and he carries her to his bedchamber. Jon wouldn’t dream about leaving her, especially after this.

He sets her gently on her feet near the bed and stands behind her so that he may unlace her dress. He is kissing her jaw again, this time near her ear, and he breathes, “Are you sure you want this?” She nods, and turns to him as her dress hits the floor. She kisses him and begins fiddling with his doublet, followed by the laces of his breeches. They remove the rest of their clothing in short order, and he soon he finds himself on his bed with her on her back, all milky skin and fiery red hair. She reminds him of the godswood.

“Breathtaking,” he says, kneeling between her spread legs. He isn’t wrong; his first glance at her gave him a tightening in his chest. He traces a hand up along the side of her thigh, and she blushes prettily and sighs. Her skin is soft against his callused fingertips.

He hovers over her, one palm on the mattress for leverage and the other stroking her sides, and then the underside of her breasts. Kissing her tenderly, he takes one breast in hand and is pleased to find that she fits him perfectly. As his thumb brushes against her pert nipple, she opens her mouth to his and moans.

He wants spend the rest of his days kissing her, but he also wants her to feel good. He frees himself from her mouth, kissing a trail down her throat to her bosom, and then to her breasts. He replaces his thumb with his mouth, tonguing and nipping gently at the stiff peaks as his hand wanders to the red thatch of hair between her thighs. She moans again at his ministrations and he moves to the other breast, giving it the same attention as the other.

His fingers draw up against her slit, where she’s already dripping with anticipation. “You’re so wet, sweet girl,” he croons. He teases her there for a moment, until she presses herself against his hand and his finger slips inside. His rough thumb finds her nub and her back arches off the mattress as he circles it. Releasing her nipple from his mouth, he looks up to watch her as he rubs her. She is glistening with sweat, chest heaving and eyes screwed shut, hands grasping at his furs. He has never seen a prettier sight.

He brings her to her first peak with his thumb and two fingers pumping into her, watching her writhe against the mattress in front of him. As her hips lift off the bed, and she cries out his name in release, he whispers filthy things in her ear. He decides that she deserves more, so he kisses down her body until he reaches her cunt, and he presses his face into her, sucking at her clit as her thighs press in around him. He gives her her second peak this way, and when she pulls him up from her swollen sex, she kisses him on the lips, tasting herself on his tongue.

“Lay on your back,” Sansa says after a time, and he follows her orders. She settles herself on his thighs, where he can feel the slick of her cunt. She smiles coquettishly down at him and grasps his cock in one hand. He almost explodes then, but restrains himself, and she strokes him for a few moments more before he stops her.

“If you keep doing that, I’m not going to last long,” he rasps. “I want to fuck you.”

Understanding, Sansa inches herself forward and hovers over him. She grins at him as she rubs her slit against the head of his cock, causing him to buck his hips and hiss “ _Sansaaa_ …” It is then that she impales herself on his cock, and they gasp in unison.

“I’ve never done _this_ before,” she admits as she rocks her hips into his. He sets his hands on her hips and guides her.

“I would have never guessed,” he responds through gritted teeth. “Gods, Sansa.” Without removing himself from within her, he sits up so she is settled in his lap. His mouth is on hers again.

“I love you,” he sighs into her mouth, without thinking. He pulls away from her, horrified, but she smiles sweetly.

“I love you too.” They begin moving again, in a tandem, his hips rising to meet hers with every thrust they make together. He dips his head to take her breast in his mouth again, suckling at her, tasting her skin. She moans, and tilts her head back; he brings his arms up, one supporting her back and the other tangling in her red hair. They are crashing into each other now, and he is deeper inside of her than he ever thought possible.

She is gradually tensing more and more around him, so tight it is almost unbearable, her moans growing louder until she collapses against his chest with a cry. She is still pulsing around him as he holds her tight to him, elevating her slightly. He thrusts up into her four more times before spilling within her.

They stay there for a few minutes, still joined, his hands gently running up and down her sides, before they both collapse onto the pillows. Sansa beams at him, biting her bottom lip, and he feels giddy, for possibly the first time in his entire life.

They both begin to laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all again! You've been great. <3


End file.
